


Where Eagles Fly

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Post War, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Eternity, The Quidditch Pitch: Leaving Feast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-27
Updated: 2010-05-26
Packaged: 2018-10-27 09:35:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10806477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: Nine years after running from the death and destruction in the wizarding world, Ron Weasley returns a changed man-in more ways than one. Now more or less a Muggle, Ron, a U.S. Air Force fighter pilot flying F-15s, is assigned to a fighter base in Britain, where his new life and the one he left behind collide. Ron/Hermione and Harry/Ginny.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: Author's Notes: "Zulu" Time is Coordinated Universial Time, or Greenwich Mean Time. "Zulu" is the name given to GMT by military and aviation. where it is the universial clock for pilots. A pilot in Japan using Zulu time is flying at the same time as a pilot in New York.  


* * *

CHAPTER ONE: EIGHT MILES HIGH

 

DELTA AIRLINES FLIGHT 3, SOMEWHERE OVER THE ATLANTIC OCEAN, 0300 ZULU JUNE 6 2006

 

Ron Weasley stirred in his seat and stretched his legs. Today had been exhausting. After flying from Panama City Bay County International, he had two layovers; one in Atlanta and one at JFK. Adding to his discomfort was the fact that he had been wearing the same clothing, George Mason T-shirt, blue jeans, Nikes, and a Red Sox ball cap since 0600 Eastern Daylight this morning. Even though it was three in the morning on the sixth, he still considered it June fifth, since he was still traveling and he hadn’t had a chance to get any meaningful sleep.   
  


The weather forecast in London called for high 50’s to low 60’s with a chance of rain. He was glad that he decided to pack his pullover from his George Mason baseball days in his carry-on. He had mixed feelings about returning to England, though, because of the way he left nine years ago. He could imagine how his mother reacted after seeing his wand broken in half and the short note he wrote on a scrap of napkin: 

 

“Mum, I’m leaving. I can’t take the fighting anymore. Give my regards to the family and Harry, and tell Hermione I’ll always love her. –Ron.” 

 

He left for America that day, managing to act older than his age at the Customs desk in Dulles Airport. A shop owner and his wife took pity on him and he ended up moving in with them. He got his GED, enrolled in George Mason University and worked towards a degree in Civil, Environmental, and Infrastructure Engineering. 

 

The attacks on September 11, 2001 shocked everybody, including Ron. He was determined to give back to his adoptive homeland and went to an Armed Forces Recruiting Center squeezed between a ma-and-pa shoe store and a pizza joint in downtown Fairfax City. He walked into the recruiting office and after remembering how it felt when he flew on his broom, bypassed “Army Strong,” “Accelerate Your Life,” and “The Few, The Proud,” and went to the Chief Master Sergeant and signed on the dotted line for Delayed Enlistment in the United States Air Force. After graduating from George Mason, he shipped off to Officer Training School in Mississippi. After graduating from OTS as a newly minted Second Lieutenant he got a pilot slot, went through Undergraduate Pilot Training and Introduction to Fighter Fundamentals. That got him to the 95th Fighter Squadron, 325th Fighter Wing at Tyndall Air Force Base, where he learned to fly and fight with the F-15C Eagle. He stayed there for two years, until he was able to put in for a Permanent Change of Station. 

 

That brought him to the here and now: flying on a Boeing 767 to Heathrow, where he would get on a bus that would take him to his most important (as far as the Air Force was concerned) destination, RAF Lakenheath and the 493rd Fighter Squadron, 48th Fighter Wing. The only thing he was looking forward to, besides sleep, was the house that was waiting for him in Bury St Edmunds, 13 miles from the fighter base. A Senior Master Sergeant coming back to the States for his last tour sold him the house a month ago, and he would pick up the keys and deed at the Lakenheath housing office. 

 

The only thing that concerned him, how would he get there? He hoped his car, a 1969           Chevrolet Camaro SS he restored while he was in school, was waiting for him. He shipped it a month prior, along with most of the rest of his worldly possessions, heeding his sponsor’s advice to ship ahead of time. He hoped that all he would have to do is sign the form for Customs and Excise needed for his car to go through British customs. Then came the MOT inspection, which he hoped would be completed in the base auto shop. He felt like drifting back to sleep again, but something forced him to stay awake for the rest of the flight.

 

 

 

35 Raynham Road, Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk 0600 BST, JUNE 6, 2006

 

Hermione Granger stirred, groping for that infernal alarm clock to shut it up for fifteen more minutes. She laid in bed, trying to eke out more sleep. Suddenly confronted with memories of _him_ , she sat up in bed. “Bugger it.” Hermione mumbled to herself as she climbed out of bed and over to the bathroom to shower.

 

  Fifteen minutes later, she dried off and dressed. She didn't wear her official robes, and instead performed a shrinking charm on them so they would fit in her attaché case.  _Wouldn’t want to create a stir on the Muggle train, would we?_ She decided against making breakfast, thinking she could grab a coffee and bagel on the walk from King’s Cross to the magical part of London. She looked at her wall calendar. 

 

Today she was meeting Harry and Ginny for lunch at the Leaky Cauldron and was looking forward to it. Harry and Ginny finally realized they loved each other after the The Battle of Hogwarts. They had shared a kiss after Harry defeated Voldemort at the castle, and their relationship grew more passionate when they arrived at The Burrow. Eventually, they moved in together with Ginny playing for the Hollyhead Harpies, and Harry joining the Aurors. Now they were seriously thinking of getting married. 

 

 The roar of twin Pratt & Whitneys overhead broke her out of her reverie. “Damn planes.” She muttered, as she walked out the front door of her house towards her car. She drove a red Ford Focus four-door hatchback, preferring to drive to the train station rather than walking there, mostly because she was a fairly attractive 26-year-old woman and Bury St Edmunds had its share of shady characters. Five minutes later, she parked her car in front of the station and walked in. Sure, she could have apparated or used the Floo, but something about _commuting_ into work made her feel like part of the crowd, like just another Muggle, and after a year with Harry and Ginny doing things during the Horcrux hunt that would make the most seasoned Force Recon Marine or Navy SEAL Scout Sniper proud, she wanted to be just a face in a sea of faces. 

 

Two hours is a long commute by anybody’s standards, but Hermione didn’t mind, as it allowed her to read the paper or catch up on paperwork or sleep. Her boss, Jack Orpheon, didn’t mind either. Sure she came in at ten in the morning, but she often didn’t leave the offices of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures until eight at night, when everybody else, including her boss, were home already. But even then, she contemplated moving closer to London, especially after working 10-hour shifts and not coming home until eleven or later. This was in the back of her mind as she bought her ticket and found her way to an empty seat. She sat back and dozed off as the train made its way to London.

 

HEATHROW AIRPORT TERMINAL THREE 0730 BST, JUNE 6th 2006

 

Ron walked towards the bus with “COACH SERVICES” on the front. He saw an older gentleman sitting on the front steps of the bus drinking something out of a thermos. “Excuse me,” Ron said, “is this the shuttle to RAF Lakenheath?” 

 

“Aye, ‘tis,” the driver answered. “Do you have your orders?” 

 

Ron rummaged around in his carry-on until he pulled out a folder. He opened it and leafed through the papers handing over his orders to the driver. “There you go.” 

 

The driver looked them over. “I’ll also need to see your DOD identification, Captain Weasley.” Ron reached for his wallet, opened it, and pulled his military ID out of the first credit card slot, handing it to the driver. “Ah, thank you.” The man looked at the card, and back at Ron, and looked again at the card. “Looks good to me.” He handed Ron's ID  back. “Find a seat. Leave your checked baggage here. I’ll put it underneath. It’s going to be a while.” 

 

“Is that tea or coffee you’re drinking?” Asked Ron, as he pointed to the man’s thermos with the urgency of having been in the Sahara for a week without water. 

 

“Coffee, mate. Black.” 

 

Ron cheered up immediately, the prospect of pure caffeine erasing his jet lag. “You got an extra cup?” 

“Aye, sure. Here 'ya go.” The driver handed Ron a styrofoam cup. He unscrewed the top and poured some coffee into the cup. 

 

Ron had a sip. “Holy shit, that’s strong!!!!” he exclaimed. 

 

“I’ll be sure to tell the maintenance squadron at Mildenhall that-” The driver stopped in mid-sentence. “Ah, we have another customer.” The driver said as another bedraggled person walked tiredly towards the bus. “Technical Sergeant Wilkins, going to Mildenhall.” 

 

The driver cleared his throat. “Orders and ID please, Sergeant. Oh, and your GTC or a personal credit card.” He looked sheepishly at Ron. “Sorry for not mentioning that to you, Captain.”

 Ron chuckled slightly as he fished out his wallet again. “That’s alright.” He turned to the young sergeant. “So where are you coming from Sergeant?”  

 

“McConnell, PCSing to Mildenhall, sir. Thought I’d better see a bit more of the world. How about you, sir?”  

 

“Tyndall, PCSing to Lakenheath, 493rd Fighter Squadron. It took me three fucking flights to get here and I've been up since 0600 yesterday. From Panama City to Atlanta, had a two-hour layover, then to JFK, where I had a three-hour layover. Only saving grace is that I got bumped up to business class at JFK. Went to the ticket counter to check in, showed my DOD ID, and the agent went ‘Captain Weasley, it seems we made a mistake. You were in Coach. You should have been in Business.’” Ron shook his head. “She asked me for my ticket, and she upgraded me. Seems her son is a jarhead in Iraq and she’s done this for all military that fly Delta and check in at her counter. I'd say that the woman deserves a medal.” 

 

“Yes sir, she does.” 

 

“How long have you been at it, Sarge?” 

 

“Since 1200 yesterday. Flew from Wichita to Chicago, then Chicago to here. Not that bad, actually. My travel guys actually got one right.” 

 

Ron chuckled. “Yeah, but I wish my travel guys put me up in a hotel in Miami for a night-that way I could have had some decent sleep. Combat napping in a plane at thirty thousand feet just doesn’t cut it. The coffee helps though.” Ron drained what was left and motioned the empty cup towards the driver. “Got any more?”

 

4 HOURS LATER: THE LEAKY CAULDRON

 

“Oh my God! Ginny, I’m so happy for the two of you!” Hermione exclaimed when she saw the huge one-carat diamond ring on her finger. “Have you been to The Burrow yet?”

 

 “That’s where we’re going after this.” Ginny replied. 

 

“Molly’s going to go nutters when she sees this ring! Where did you get it Harry?” 

 

“I had it custom made at a Muggle jewelers.” 

 

Hermione turned back to Ginny. “That’s amazing. Gin, I’m sure Ron would have approved you two.” 

 

“He probably would, but I don’t want to talk about that tosser right now. He’s just like Percy- running off, abandoning the family. What’s even worse, is that he gave up magic!” Ginny sighed. “Don’t you remember how my mum reacted when she saw his wand broken in half on the kitchen table? And then there was anguish she felt after reading the note he left her?” 

 

“Gin, I do, really. I still can’t fathom why he did that. Don’t forget, I miss him too, I loved him. But don’t let what he did nine years ago overshadow your engagement. This is just what Molly needs. Tell you what, why don't you both come over to my place in Suffolk on the 12th, next Monday. Bring Molly and we'll have dinner.” 

 

“Herm, that sounds lovely. I- _We’ll_ keep that date open. I’ll let Mum know too. Are you connected to the Floo Network?” 

 

“No, my house doesn’t have a fireplace, and it’s in a Muggle neighborhood. You could try to apparate, but I don't think you've been to my apartment enough for that. I think there's a Floo station in the old part of the city. Other than that, it’s a two-hour train ride from King’s Cross.” 

 

“I'll look into that Floo station. I'm fairly certain I had to use that one on a case once.”

 

“Sounds good, Herm. We’re going to be looking forward to that.” Ginny said, reaching for her butterbeer. 

 

“So how is it going with the Harpies, Gin?” asked Hermione. 

 

Ginny had joined the Hollyhead Harpies, an all-girls team on an island off Wales. She had an incredible career so far, and was being compared to some of the best Chasers in the BQL. 

 

“It’s ok, been thinking about retiring, especially with getting married and all. Somebody’s got to keep the home fires burning.” 

 

“Got anything else lined up then?” 

 

“The _Prophet_ has a position open for a Quidditch beat reporter. Figure I could do that and make my way up the ranks. And when we decide to start a family, it’d be easier on the kids.” 

 

Hermione nodded. “That makes sense.” A few minutes passed in silence as the trio dug into their lunch. After the three finished eating, the conversation turned to Hermione’s efforts at the Department of Magical Creatures and her frequent run-ins with Luna Lovegood. Luna was trying to convince Hermione that Crumple-Horned Snorkacks existed. “They don’t. I’ve told her this several bloody times. Merlin, she is so daft sometimes.” Hermione shook her head, “I wish I could have a bottle of Firewhiskey when she comes barging in my office.” 

 

Harry and Ginny chuckled. Ginny piped up, “I always loved Luna but I have to admit she always was a bit of a space cadet.” 


	2. Chapter 2

  
Author's notes:

"Mud Hen" is the nickname given by F-15C pilots to the F-15E Strike Eagle, a two-seat, all-weather multirole fighter. It can perform air-to-air and air-to-ground missions. "Albino" is the reciprocal nickname given to the F-15C air superiority fighter, called such because of the aircraft's light gray paint scheme.

"Statue of Liberty Wing (Liberty Wing)" and the 48th Fighter Wing will be used interchangeably. The 48th is the only unit in the US Air Force to have both a name and a numerical designation.

The Bureau of Magical Affairs can be considered similar to the Bureau of Indian Affairs, United States Department of the Interior.

I apologize for the immense delay in getting this chapter up. 

* * *

SQUADRON CO's OFFICE, 493rd FIGHTER SQUADRON, RAF LAKENHEATH. 1600BST, JUNE 9, 2006

Lieutenant Colonel Frank Gregorio spoke into the intercom "Bring in Captain Weasley." The door opened and Ron walked in. "Jesus Christ, _you're_ Weasley? I think you're in the wrong place, the 100th Air Refueling Wing's down the road. How'd the hell did they shoehorn you into an F-15 cockpit? You've got to be, what, at least six foot two?" 

Ron chuckled. "No, Colonel, I'm in the right place. I'm six foot four. It was a bit of an adventure getting into the fifteen at first, but I'm used to it now. Fits me like a glove." 

"That's a pretty tight glove then son. Height limit's six foot five. Where are you from? I bet you were a wide receiver in college." 

"Originally I'm from Ottery Saint Catchpole, in Devon, but I ran off when I was seventeen to the States and I was granted asylum. I lived in Falls Church, Virginia after that and I attended George Mason, where I played baseball." 

"Asylum? Oh, wait." Gregorio looked over Ron's file. "You have magical abilities?" 

"I did sir, but right before I left Britain, I snapped my wand. In the magical community, if you voluntarily snap your wand or your wand is snapped by the authorities for punishment, you cannot practice magic anymore. When I ran away, Britain's magical community was in the middle of a war. My family and I were fighting against a dark wizard who was our equivalent of Hitler. He wanted a 'perfect race' and he was conducting terror acts against half blood families and what we called Muggle families, people who weren't "perfect," or pure. Muggles are ordinary humans, but the cosmic lottery sometimes gives Muggle families a witch or wizard."

"I read your file and the entry from the Bureau of Magical Affairs, Department of the Interior. Geez, you were doing shit at seventeen that only Green Berets ten years older can imagine doing. I can see why you ran." He closed the folder and placed it on his desk. "Anyway, welcome to the four ninety-third. I'm squadron commander and director of operations for the forty-eighth Operations Group. Hope you can stand being sandwiched by Mud Hens. You've been doing in-processing and some ground stuff, but you'll be flying next week. Monday we're entertaining some Swedes for a couple weeks, and I want you up against them when they're flying in. I want to give them a surprise. I assume you talked to Major Kenna?"

"Yes sir."

"Okay, then. Welcome to the Liberty Wing."

z88;

z88;

DEPARTMENT FOR THE REGULATION AND CONTROL OF MAGICAL CREATURES, MINISTRY OF MAGIC. 1630 BST, SAME DAY

Hermione looked at the clock wearily. _Three more hours._ The stack of paperwork on her desk reminded her of her seventh year at Hogwarts. Half of the monstrous stack before her was from Luna Lovegood regarding her "sightings" while on expeditions with Rolf Scamander. _At least none of it was about a certain-horned Snorkack or that other favorite of Luna's, a Bumbling, er, Blibbering Humdinger. She did find new species, which was one thing going for her, if only she could stop talking about those damned Snorkacks, because they did not exist, never have and never will._ Hermione leafed through the pile, separating the papers that needed her immediate attention from the less important ones. _Well, let's get through the urgent ones, then I can leave early tonight._ An hour later, Harry came in. "Are you still working? A bunch of us are going over to the Leaky. Mr. Weasley's secretary, Mrs. Pominville, is retiring." 

"She is? I didn't know."

"Well, see what happens when you're buried in paperwork all day?"

Hermione sniffed "Don't believe everything you see, Harry. I was down to the cafeteria today. I didn't hear anything."

"She didn't want to make a fuss, but Seamus found out from the girl he's chasing, and it went downhill from there. You coming or not?"

"Yeah, I'll kip over for a bit, just let me finish this last piece of paperwork...there. Okay, let's go."

A FEW HOURS LATER, 35 RAYNHAM ROAD, BURY ST. EDMUNDS, SUFFOLK.

 

Hermione sat on her front steps, taking in the early summer evening after the retirement party for Mrs. Pominville. The sun set an hour ago, but other people had the same idea and were out enjoying the mild weather. She could smell charcoal grills cooking various forms of meat-the summertime staple anywhere in the Western world. She could hear kids screaming playfully, happy they could stay up for a few hours more. Cars went by her house, taking their owners to their respective homes in this tiny neighborhood. A sound intrigued her, soft at first, but growing loud. A sound of a big block V8 burbling through dual exhaust pipes. The car, obviously American, rounded the turn south of her house. The car then turned right onto Gage Close. It parked on the street in front of the second house on the northern side of the street. "Typical Yank" she muttered, seeing the driver exit the car. _Still, he is rather good-looking. Tall, lean and muscular, oh my!_ She continued ogling the American, watching as he lifted grocery bags out of the boot. _What do they call it? Oh right, trunk._ There was just enough light to make out what he was wearing-a gray t-shirt with "PROPERTY OF GEORGE MASON BASEBALL XXL" on the front, blue jeans, a pair of trainers, and a baseball cap with a red "B" on the front. _He definitely wears it well. Must be one of the servicemen at the air base up north._ Her eyes stayed locked on him as he disappeared into the house.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ron threw his keys in the ashtray next to the door. He didn't smoke, but he figured the tray could serve a second purpose as a key holder. He put the groceries on the kitchen table and grabbed a bottle of Stella Artois out of the refrigerator. _Gotta introduce these people to Boston Lager or Yuengling._ He sat on the couch and turned on the TV. He was amazed to see _Sportscenter_ on NASN. _Didn't know they had it over here._ Just as the personalities were introducing the latest saga in the steroid scandal, his cell phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Is this Ron Weasley?"  
  
"Yes."

"I'm Jimmy Thrall, call sign 'Thriller'. I wanted to welcome you to the four ninety-third and the Liberty Wing. Just want to let you know, the pilots are having a pick-up softball game at the base. Us against the four ninety-fourth. Those Mud Hen drivers killed us the last time, but since I've heard you played some ball in college, we might be able to turn that around."

"I'm game. Might need a glove, I don't think mine's big enough. What time?"

"We'll bring gear. We're aiming for 1300, or thereabouts. After you go through the guard shack at the high school, and the roundabout right after the shack, go straight and turn left at the cross street. Stay on that street until you see the track. Then turn left and run parallel to the track until you get to another roundabout, go through, it's the second spoke. Turn left there and you should see the tennis courts and the parking lot's right after that. What are you driving?"

"A sixty-nine Camaro. Dark green."

"Damn, I'll have to see _that._ Okay, the wife's bugging me to help get the kids to bed. Nice talking to ya and I'll see you tomorrow. G'night." 

 

"Later." Ron hung up and sunk into the couch, watching the highlights of the Red Sox game from the previous evening.


End file.
